Botho entrusted himself to the guidance of an old man who was busy near
the entrance gate and found Frau Nimptsch's grave well cared for: ivy
vines had been planted, a pot of geraniums stood between them and a
wreath of immortelles was already hanging on a little iron stand. "Ah,
Lena," said Botho to himself. "Always the same.... I have come too
late." And then he turned to the old man who was standing near and
asked: "Was it a very small funeral?"
"Yes, it was very small indeed."
"Three or four?"
"Exactly four. And of course our old superintendent. He only made a
prayer and the big middle-aged woman, about forty or so, who was here,
cried all the time. And a young woman was here too. She comes once a
week and last Sunday she brought the geranium. And she means to get a
stone too, the kind that are fashionable now: a green polished one with
the name and date on it."
And herewith the old man drew back with the politeness common to all
who are employed about a cemetery, while Botho hung his wreath of
immortelles together with Lena's, but the wreath of evergreens and
white roses he laid around the pot of geraniums. And then he walked
back to the entrance of the cemetery, after looking a little longer at
the modest grave and thinking lovingly of good old Fran Nimptsch. The
old man, who had meanwhile returned to the care of his vines, took off
his cap and looked after him, and puzzled over the question, what could
have brought such a fine gentleman (for after that last handshake of
his, he had had no doubts as to the quality of the visitor) to the
grave of an old woman. "There must be some reason for it. And he did
not have the cab wait." However he could come to no conclusion, and at
least to show his gratitude as best he could, he took a watering pot
and filled it and then went to Frau Nimptsch's grave and watered the
ivy, which had grown rather dry in the hot sun.
Meanwhile Botho had gone back to the cab, which was waiting by the
Rollkrug, got in and an hour later had once more reached the
Landgrafenstrasse. The driver jumped down civilly and opened the door.
"Here," said Botho "... and this is extra. It was half an excursion
..."
"One might as well call it a whole one."
"I see," laughed Rienaecker. "Then I must give you a bit more?"
"It wouldn't do any harm ... Thank you, Herr Baron."
"But now feed your horse a little better, for my sake. He is a pitiful
sight."
And he nodded and ran up the steps.
There was not a sound in the house and even the servants were away,
because they knew that he was usually at the club at about this time,
at least during his wife's absence. "Untrustworthy people," he grumbled
to himself and seemed quite provoked. Nevertheless he was glad to be
alone. He did not want to see anyone and went and sat out on the
balcony, to be alone with his dreams. But it was close under the awning
which was down and had also a deep, drooping fringe and so he rose to
put up the awning. That was better. The fresh air, which now entered
freely, did him good and drawing a deep breath he stepped to the
railing and looked over fields and woods to the castle tower of
Charlottenburg, whose greenish copper roof shimmered in the bright
afternoon sunshine.
"Behind lies Spandau," said he to himself. "And behind Spandau there is
an embankment and a railroad track which runs as far as the Rhine. And
on that track I see a train, with many carriages and Katherine is
sitting in one of them. I wonder how she looks? Well, of course. And
what is she probably talking about? A little of everything, I think:
piquant tales about the baths, or about Frau Salinger's toilettes, and
how it is really best in Berlin. And ought I not to be glad that she is
coming home again? Such a pretty woman, so young, so happy and cheerful
And I am glad too. But she must not come to-day. For heaven's sake, no.
And yet I can believe it of her. She has not written for three days and
it is quite likely that she is planning a surprise."
He followed these fancies for a while yet, but then the pictures
changed and, instead of Katherine's, long past images arose again in
his mind: the Doerr's garden, the walk to Wilmersdorf, the excursion to
Hankel's Ablage. That had been their last beautiful day, their last
happy hour.... "She said then that a hair would bind too tight, and so
she refused and did not want to do it. And I? Why did I insist upon it?
Yes, there are such mysterious powers, such affinities that come from
heaven or hell, and now I am bound and cannot free myself. Oh how dear
and good she was that afternoon, while we were still alone and did not
dream of being disturbed, and I cannot forget the picture of Lena among
the grasses picking flowers here and there. I have the flowers still.
But I will destroy them. Why should I keep the poor dead things, that
only make me restless and might cost me what little happiness I have
and disturb the peacefulness of my marriage, if ever another eye should
see them."
And he rose from his seat on the balcony and passed through the whole
length of the house to his workroom, which overlooked the courtyard and
was very sunny in the morning, but was now in deep shadow. The coolness
did him good and he went to a handsome desk which he had had ever since
his bachelor days, and which had little ebony drawers decorated with
various little silver garlands. In the middle, surrounded by these
drawers there was a sort of temple-like structure with pillars and a
pediment; this temple was meant to keep valuables in and had a secret
drawer behind it, which closed with a spring. Botho pressed the spring
and when the drawer sprung open, took out a small bundle of letters,
tied up with a red cord, on top of which, as if put there as an
afterthought, lay the flowers of which he had just been speaking. He
weighed the packet in his hand and said, as he was untying the cord:
"Great joy, great grief. Trials and tribulations. The old song."
He was alone and need fear no surprises. But still, fancying himself
not sufficiently secure, he rose and locked the door. And only then did
he take the topmost letter and read it. It was the one written the day
before the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he now looked very tenderly at the
words which he had formerly underlined with his pencil. "Stiehl....
Alleh.... How these poor dear little 'h's' take my fancy to-day, more
than all the orthography in the world. And how clear the handwriting
is. And how good and at the same time how playful is what she wrote.
Ah, how happily her traits were mingled. She was both reasonable and
passionate. Everything that she said showed character and depth of
feeling. How poor a thing is culture, and how ill it compares with
genuine qualities."
He picked up the second letter and meant to read the whole
correspondence from beginning to end. But it distressed him too much.
"What is the use? Why should I recall to life what is dead and must
remain dead? I must destroy all this and I must hope that even memory
itself will fade with the reminders that awakened it."
Now that his mind was fully made up, he rose quickly from his desk,
pushed the fire screen to one side and stepped to the little hearth to
burn the letters. And slowly, as if he wanted to prolong the sweet
sorrow, he let leaf by leaf fall on the hearth and vanish in the
flames. The last thing left in his hand was the bunch of flowers and
while he was thinking and pondering, a change of feeling come over him
and he felt as if he must untie the strand of hair and look at each
flower separately. But suddenly, as if overcome with superstitious
fear, he threw the flowers after the letters.
One more flicker and all was wholly quenched and destroyed.
"Am I free now?... Do I want to be? I do not. It is all turned to
ashes. And yet I am bound."